Our Bell-Ringer
by writerofberk
Summary: Our bell-ringer has others now, human companions and friends of flesh-and-blood, with arms that can embrace and eyes that can cry...he doesn't need us anymore. One-shot.
_**Our Bell-Ringer**_

 **A/N: This whole thing was inspired by the classic book, in which Victor Hugo says the cathedral seems to "come to life" whenever Quasi's inside it - and when he leaves, when he dies, the cathedral appears dead, too. So this is the cathedral and all the statues and carved things within it talking about Quasimodo.**

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We have watched him.

For these twenty long years, we have watched our little bell-ringer; he has grown now, changed from the little, misshapen babe into a kind-hearted young man; though his face may frighten others, it does not make fear stir within us, for we have seen the soul within the broken body, and we know that a purer one could not exist. We have watched him; when the one he called master brought him up here, we welcomed him, nurturing the poor babe when the other was not there. When the one he called master turned a steely gray gaze upon him or inflicted cruel punishments; when the one he called master degraded him, called him deformed and ugly; when the one he called master lost his temper and raised his voice; when the one he called master destroyed his things; when the one he called master was not worthy of the title, we were there, and we comforted our little bell-ringer.

Every night that he could not sleep, and every tear the one he called master made him shed – we were there through it all, and we tried to help in any way we could. When he professed his loneliness, poured all the secret longings and hurts of his soul out into the air, thinking no one living would ever hear them, we were there, and we heard. We, with our hands and arms of stone, could not reach to offer him the comfort that a human companion could have; with our hearts and eyes of unforgiving rock, we could not cry for him, but we felt the pain within him as keenly as we felt our own, and we tried to help in any way we could. For twenty long years, we were his friends, his companions – without us, he might never have known the little word love, for certainly the one he called master had never shown such a human quality in all his existence.

We looked after him and cared for him, held him with our arms of granite and tried to bestow kisses with our carved lips; our stone hearts broke when he cried, and we tried to help; but when the one he called master entered the room, we could not defend him. When the one he called master rose one day and raised a hand as if to strike him, we could not stop the blow from connecting. It did not – the one he called master regained his composure, and pretended he had never lost it in the first place, but we remembered the day always, and we wished with every inch of our hard stone hearts that we could have helped.

Our little bell-ringer expressed curiosity about the outside world often; for hours, he would stand at the windows, gazing down at the dirty, damp city streets, his broad shoulders slumped, green eyes wide and wonder-filled, and we felt the ache within him, the yearning to leave this place, and live.

He would never do it, though, never; he was too afraid. The one he called master filled him with terror. Whenever the other entered, our little bell-ringer cowered and cringed, doubling in upon himself and falling nearly to his knees every time the other looked at him. He talked often of leaving, of asking the one he called master for just one afternoon of freedom; he rehearsed it often, and we heard his voice, echoing around, bouncing off the stone walls, and when the one he called master entered he fell silent, and all his rehearsals were for naught.

Once, a bird constructed its nest in the mouth of one of our gargoyles, an obnoxious carving who called himself Hugo; she did not stay to care for eggs after she had laid them, and she flew away without a glance back. There was one babe within the nest that refused to fly for weeks after his brothers and sisters had flown; at last, our little bell-ringer convinced her to do so, and she left him. Many animals had taken refuge within the mouths and ears of carvings and statues, and every time, our little bell-ringer cared for them, giving them all the compassion he had never given himself; and they always left.

In time, the one he called master convinced him that he was naught but a monster, and though his soul was pure and strong, it grew weathered and battered, and he learned to expect little save cruelty from others.

We did not show him cruelty; we were kind to him, as kind as he deserved, and he deserved every civility known to man. We loved our little bell-ringer, and one day convinced him to leave. He was reluctant and frightened at the prospect, but his desire for freedom won out in the end. He never bothered to ask the one he called master; the one he called master learned of his plans and told him he must never leave, that he was foul and ugly and monstrous, and our little bell-ringer believed him. But our little bell-ringer was not a weak soul, and he disobeyed the one he called master, and left the bell-tower. We are certain it took all, or nearly all, his courage to do this, and the day ended in disaster. He went in disguise, but in vain; the people saw his face and were afraid, just as the one he called master had predicted they would.

The townspeople displayed a horridness, a savagery that we could never have dreamed existed within any soul, even that of the one he called master, twisted and evil as it was. The townspeople showed him not a single moment of mercy – the only kindness came from a young gypsy girl, a woman with unruly dark hair and soft green eyes. When they tied him down with rope and threw all manner of food at him, egg yolk and tomato juice dripping down his face, she was kind to him, kneeling down and wiping his cheek, whispering apologies.

Our little bell-ringer retreated in here once more, with us, and balanced on the ceiling beams and sheltered himself under the biggest bells, tears dripping from his eyes, seeking our comfort and solace. The gypsy girl who had shown him the single kindness followed him to his tower, and she was kind to him; when he told her he was a monster, she did not believe him. She saw the purity of the soul that the one he called master had tried so valiantly to corrupt, and we protected her, as well; she was kind to our bell-ringer, and we harmed her not, keeping her safe and warm within our walls.

She left, too.

Everyone always left in the end.

But she returned, and she bore an injured, exiled soldier upon her shoulder, and begged our little bell-ringer to protect him; we saw the soul of the gypsy girl, and saw that it was as kind and pure as that of our bell-ringer, but we saw that she was in love with the soldier, and in doing this, she had broken our bell-ringer's heart. For a time, our bell-ringer's purity was threatened by this occurrence; he became resentful and bitter and jealous, and we were very afraid that perhaps our little bell-ringer would shut himself away and cease to hope for the future.

But our bell-ringer's soul had not been tarnished despite twenty long years under the cruel, controlling thumb of the one he called master, and he realized the error of his ways; he assisted the soldier and helped to save the gypsy girl; the one he called master was determined to murder her, and sentenced her to death. He chained our bell-ringer up, high in the tower, and though we knew he could have broken through his restraints, he did not. He sat still and stared sorrowfully down as smoke filled the air; a few of the carvings tried to plead with him, to reason. That was the first day he ever spoke harshly to us, and the carvings retreated. Our little bell-ringer found his soul being tested again, and though perhaps it had undergone more trial than your ordinary soul, we feared it had weakened him, rather than strengthening – and we were afraid for him, afraid that perhaps the one he called master had triumphed after all.

But he had not; our little bell-ringer remembered himself, found his strength, and broke free; he rescued the gypsy girl from her pyre and brought her to the tower; the one he called master declared war upon us, determined to end the lives of both the gypsy girl and our bell-ringer, and we came to life. The carvings came to life and swooped down, wounding any soldier that they could reach; the stone ceilings shook and crumbled, sheets of fire and lava falling from the windows and dragon-carvings down onto the soldiers, onto the one he called master.

We defended our little bell-ringer.

And our little bell-ringer won; the gypsy girl survived, despite her tribulations, and our bell-ringer was stronger than anyone had dared to imagine; the soldier won the gypsy girl's heart, and though this saddened our bell-ringer, he did not let it affect him so deeply; he seemed to be happy for them, and certainly never expressed any lingering bitterness to us. He hid in the darkness of our wings, sought refuge in us, made us his sanctuary, and hid from the people outside. Their cruelty had hurt his soul far deeper than the gypsy girl had, and we had no plans to let him leave again. Not if he did not wish it.

But when the gypsy girl approached him, dodging the fallen beams and pillars, and walked into the darkness, extending a hand to lead him into the light, he went. Their fingers intertwined, and she led him out onto the stone steps. The people did not hurt our bell-ringer this time, merely gazed at him in curiosity and perhaps a bit of uncertainty – but they accepted him, they cheered for him, and to date, we had never seen our bell-ringer smile so widely before.

We let our bell-ringer go.

Everyone left in the end, and we suppose this rang true even for him; we let him go, and he scarcely ever returned. He had been known to look back upon the tower occasionally, and he did visit from time to time, but he did not live with us anymore. We did not speak to him anymore. We did not come to life for him, and ceased to offer him our comfort or solace.

He did not need us anymore.

So if you see our carvings, particularly the trio of Victor and Hugo and Laverne, if you ever spy those cold stone eyes shedding watery tears, do not be surprised, and know we are crying tears of joy, for our bell-ringer has finally found a better life than the one he led here for those twenty long years. The one he called master has died, and he has emerged from the battle victorious; but whenever he returned to the tower, we ceased to speak or interact with him. It was a painful decision to make, but it was the right one. He had others now – human companions, friends of flesh-and-blood, ones with hearts that could beat and arms that could embrace and eyes that could cry.

And know the carvings cry tears of sorrow as well, for the day has finally come – the day we had to let our little bell-ringer go.


End file.
